Evidence A: Remember
by walkamongstthestars
Summary: There are some things Sherlock doesn't delete, but still needs help remembering; still needs help to believe they occurred.
1. Chapter 1

**So this was inspired by this post: post/28547979456/immatiger-walkamongstthestars-just-a**

**on my tumblr (walkamongstthestars)**

**where I saw the tags someone put, got inspired, and wrote a scenario for. And then this happened. This may be a series. Yay. So yeah. ENJOY. And please let me know if they are any mistakes.**

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"John? Where are you-" Sherlock turned away from his microscope to yell after John, only to discover he was already gone. Sherlock sat in an uncomfortable silence, his gaze flicking between the mold cultures he was studying and the seat John had just vacated. He swallowed and stood, realizing he didn't know what he intended to do after completing that action. So he walked into the sitting room and looked around, fiddling with the phone he hadn't realized he picked up. _John's_ phone. He looked down at it, examining it as though it might bite him. Footsteps on the stairs to 221B momentarily roused Sherlock from his daze.

"Oh, Sherlock, dear, what was all that racket? Where's…" Mrs. Hudson walked in, glancing around the room, then winced and appraised Sherlock. "Had a row, didn't you?"

Sherlock simply stood in one place, running his thumb along the SEND and POWER buttons on John's phone. His face could've been read as confusion, but it was more about hurt; more about fear.

"Oh, Sherlock. He'll come back. He always does. Is…" Mrs. Hudson warily eyed the phone being stroked by Sherlock's fingers. "You know John. He's… he just needs time. He wouldn't remember something like that if he's ups-" Mrs. Hudson stopped herself from finishing her sentence, huffing and moving towards Sherlock. Sherlock turned his back to her and went to the window. He had done this before. But, before, he was petulant. Before, he was frustrated. Now… dear God, what had this man done to Sherlock?

Mrs. Hudson sighed and watched Sherlock slump into the wooden chair in front of his computer. She placed a hand on his shoulder, gently, before shuffling over to the kitchen to put the kettle on. Sherlock slowly slid his hand into his trouser pocket and fingered the small flash drive while Mrs. Hudson puttered about and talked of the married ones next door who always fought, but always ended up alright. Sherlock wasn't listening. He murmured a thanks when she placed a mug in front of him and smiled, then exclaiming that she had forgotten the food in the oven, and promptly rushed out of the room. Sherlock waited until he heard the door close and quickly took the flash drive out of his pocket, sticking the USB connection side into his computer's port.

The laptop whirred away for a moment until a window popped up, with one singular file shown, labeled "Evidence A: Remember". He looked at it, expressionless, leaning back a little as he closed his eyes, his mind jumping back and forth between thoughts.

_Sherlock, you can't keep throwing good food away to make room for sodding…what even are those?_

_Mold cultures, John. Do keep up. It's for-_

_You may think I actually care, but I don't. Jesus, Sherlock. You've been completely unreasonable this whole week. You still have to apologize to Lestrade. He didn't deserve that._

_John, if I don't examine the growth of these cultures for the next two hours, the case may go unsolved. _

_Oh, because you couldn't just ask someone at St. Bart's._

_John, I would have thought you knew better than that._

_Christ, Sherlock, I'm just so damn tired. Getting double shifts at surgery on top of the case just did me in. Can you please, _please_, just do as I ask, for once?_

_Perhaps, then, you should reconsider your extracurricular activities._

_My… what?_

_Surgery._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock, fucking look at me. You do not get to tell me to quit my job just because-_

_You were perfectly fine before. We earn enough money from my work, why does this not satisfy you?_

_It's not about the… that's not the point. I want to work. I like to do this work. Because believe it or not, patching up sick people is actually less stressful, sometimes, than working on a case._

_But, you enjoy the cases. You said it yourself._

_I- I know I did, that's not… Sherlock, look, this has been an unbearably long week. Just, please, leave some food in the fridge for me, and apologize to-_

_Why should I apologize to him when he was wrong?_

_Because it's not about who is right or wrong. It's about who is being a bigger dick. And in this instance, you are._

_John, you keep using that insult, but you use it in affectionate ways, too. How am I supposed to know when it has a good or bad connotation? This inconsistency is-_

_SHERLOCK, for God's sake, are you actually- no. No. I'm not going to even- no. I'm bloody starving, there's no food, I'm going to go get food._

_No._

_Excuse me?_

_I said, no._

_I don't understand._

_You can't go get food._

_Why the Hell not?_

_Because, I need you here._

_What for?_

_Well, to help me document the growth of this mold, if you like, then to make tea before we go to bed. I was thinking, you were watching that ridiculous television show, but it gave me an idea. That one man was describing how he liked to receive or-_

_Sherlock fucking Holmes, if you think I'm going to make you tea and fuck you tonight, you're really not that clever. _

_Why ever not, John?_

_Right. That's it. I can't take this._

Sherlock knew, even if he had trouble processing it, that he had done _something_ wrong. Logically, John was being infuriatingly unpredictable this week. But that was possibly linked to the approximately 3.4 hours of sleep he was getting each night. And, okay, yes, maybe the lack of food. But that wasn't unusual. What had bothered him so much this time?

Sherlock looked back at the window for a few moments before his gaze returned to the video file and he double clicked on it. A new window popped open and John's face filled the screen. He hovered over the play button for a second, and then clicked.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"I'm recording you."

"Yes, I gathered, but why?"

"It's for an experiment. Tell me why you love me?"

John laughed.

"Well, someone's sure of himself." A smile. The camera went out of focus for a moment as Sherlock, sitting beside John and behind the camera, rolled his eyes and poked John in the side.

"_John_."

"Right, alright, yes, of course. I love you, you cheeky git. Don't for one second believe otherwise, yeah? Because… well. Because you're mad, you're clever, and you-" a short pause as John breathed out his nose and smiled to himself, looking away from Sherlock, then back. "You make me feel alive."

The silence in between was filled with Sherlock looking at John on the tiny screen of the video camera, trying to hide his eyes from John's view. John looked directly into the camera and continued.

"You drive me up the wall, you're petulant and difficult, a complete dick most of the time.. but." Sherlock had held his breath. "But, Christ, if I can't live without you. You know, I'd be lying to God and everyone if I denied falling for you the first day we met. I just- well, you know I was struggling to understand for a very long time what it meant. But, I think I was afraid, a little, too. Oh, don't give me that look. Yeah, me, John Watson, army doctor, scared, whoohoo. Big deal. But yeah, I was, a bit. Because how could anyone so damned daft and gorgeous and amazing as you ever love me, hm? I couldn't help but deny it. I thought I was going insane. _How would this ever work_, I thought. But damn it, you great idiot, you went and did most of the work anyway. I still think Hell froze over the day you cooked a candle light dinner for me. Jesus."

Sherlock blinked at the screen when he noticed his hand had traveled to the pixels of John's face on it.

"But, I'm a right sod, myself. You- you certainly know how to charm a man, though. The way you decorated with the ashtray and.. Jesus, that got me, well good. How's a man to refuse when you go and do something romantic?" John laughed again, smiling at Sherlock. Sherlock still hid behind the camera.

"I don't even know how you _knew_ to do that, but you did, because in some weird way, you always know how to be romantic. In your own way. You always know how to take some strange thing and make it bloody marvelous. Who cares about a stupid date at the cinema when you can fill your lungs with fresh London air and catch a killer? Yeah, you smile now, just remember that night I fell in the bloody Thames. You still owe me a foot rub for that. I'm lucky I still _have_ feet. Anyway…" John paused again and sat back, carding a hand through his hair.

"I love you because you let me be myself, because you never doubted me. You may call me a moron, and mean it, every time… but you were the first person not to treat me like some invalid. You _knew _I could do better. Jesus, that first night is forever seared into my mind. You asked me- bloody _asked_ me if I was any good. And Hell, yeah, I know I'm good. I knew I was overqualified for the job at Surgery, but you didn't say anything, and I didn't say anything. Because, at the end of the day, I still get to see the real action in the morgue, by the docks, in warehouses. You knew I needed that. So, I can take some cases of sniffles and incontinence. I can deal with other people and their lives, because it's easy, because I'm good at it, and because I know I have a fantastic, genius, consulting detective to come home to, who supports me along the way. I - God I'm waffling on, but, really. I… you know I still regret saying you were my colleague, right? I'm a tosser, sometimes, but- oh, well. Sod it, you've got me rambling on here, and all I really should say is that our first day together was enough evidence as anything for why I should, and do, love you. And why I'd kill any bloody cabbie who threatened your life, at the drop of a hat. Don't laugh, no-" John's giggle was cut off by Sherlock kissing him, the camera catching a glimpse of it before it clattered to the floor and turned off.

Sherlock kept his hand on the screen as the video stopped and went black. His tea had gone cold. Standing up, he ejected the flash drive and held it firmly in his hand for a moment, before secreting it back into his pocket. He then fished out the ashtray from under a pile of case files, and rummaged around in a drawer in the kitchen until he found a tea light, placing it in the tray and flicking his lighter to ignite a flame on the tip of it. He heated up another mug of tea - no milk, which caused Sherlock to wince- and sat. And waited.

The army doctor shook his head and smiled softly, greeted as he was by the curled up, lightly snoring detective. He checked his watch - _forty-five minutes_- and palmed the mugs to check they were cold, blowing out the candle. Then, he shed his jacket and draped it over his partner. Carefully, he lay next to Sherlock on the sofa, making a mental note to buy even _more_ food, because, really, Sherlock should not be thin enough for them to spoon on the sofa. But, they did, Sherlock mumbling and shifting under John's embrace.

_Don't for one second believe otherwise, yeah?_


	2. John CrossButPatient Watson

**So basically, this is really not good at all and I wrote this at like 4 in the morning last night, because people were requesting the continuation and I suck a lot and never did it. The plot is actually laughable because I was just like "umm let's faff around here about some crime" because I am legitimately the worst with that sort of storyline. So I apologize.**

**Not beta'd or Brit-picked, and I pulled some stuff outta my arse about gangs and honestly, if any of this seems offensive just you know, let me know. Any gross mistakes are my own, I know nothing about the area, I just google maps'd stuff. Thanks.**

**ALSO: I know I'm mean to Mycroft here, but just bear with me, I don't hate Mycroft in any way, shape, or form. This loosely exists post-RF, but I'm leaving it open to interpretation. But I don't think I could paint their relationship as outwardly loving if I had a gun to my head.**

"If you keep doing this, your ever-loving John is going to think you're attempting to avoid him," Mycroft said over the rim of his tumbler, before taking a quick sip of the honey-gold liquid inside and replacing the glass on the small table next to the armchair, preparing himself for an onslaught of absolute petulant Sherlock.

"Shut up, Mycroft. I'd rather have John cross with me than dead. Did you get the itinerary?" Sherlock snapped at Mycroft, his cheek resting in his hand, fingers twitching across his lower lip. Mycroft sighed and raised his eyebrows, opening his briefcase to withdraw a thin manila folder.

"Yes, just as you requested. Why on earth you need to go on such a convoluted route is beyond me," he drawled, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes and bite back the urge to bring up the diet again. Even he didn't have time for this petty rivalry at the moment. "You'll be taken to the station at five in the morning, dropped off three blocks away. This particular station is crowded enough for you to secrete yourself amongst other travelers until you're in the car. You'll reach Slough at six, take a cab to the airport, and depart at nine. You'll arrive in the quiet country of Scotland in the afternoon and take yet another cab to the nearby station, arriving at some hole-in-the-wall bedsit, I'm sure. This would all be more comforting if I understood what was happening, though, Sherlock."

Sherlock took the folder from Mycroft and didn't reply, glancing over it quickly. "All you need to know is that I am less than pleased to be owing you for this. No point of worry, I assure you. I trust you'll send John the message I dictated?"

Mycroft grimaced slightly, the tips of his first and second finger gliding over the rim of his glass. "I must confess, I wish it was not required of me. John can be quite…" Mycroft trailed off, seemingly an attempt at treading cautiously.

"Immutable in his concern and _gentle_ ways of extracting information?" Sherlock smiled, falsely. Mycroft narrowed his eyes and groused.

"Heaven forbid the two of you marry; I shall never recover from the duty of brother-in-law," Mycroft weakly jabbed. Sherlock seemed to still minutely at this, but recovered and sneered back.

"I'm sure he'd be equally satisfied at the notion of it," he said, more quietly, distracted by the curious fray at the edge of the folder. Less curious in the reality of its existence than in that it provided Sherlock a way to shift himself farther from Mycroft's watchful eye.

"Well, I suppose-"

"I'll be in my room," Sherlock cut Mycroft off, standing and turning towards the door, hand on the ornate golden curve of the handle. "I-"

"Yes. Goodnight." Mycroft busied himself with the latch on his briefcase, nodding. He needed nothing more; he deserved nothing more, at that moment. Sherlock nevertheless felt an uncomfortable coil in his chest. The mere circumstance of him reaching out to Mycroft in this instance was enough show of gratitude for them, though it would not have been for any other. John's sentimentality had begun to rub off more on Sherlock, but he still easily bit back the urge to utter any kindness. John would eventually thank Mycroft for helping to keep them out of harm's way - after thoroughly glaring them both down, possibly punching Sherlock - no, definitely punching him- and proceeding to make Mycroft feel like a three-year-old being scolded by his mother for breaking her favorite vase. It was not, as yet, Sherlock's duty to be unutterably forgiving or gracious. Mycroft didn't expect it, and John had gained an incredible understanding of their relationship after the numerous times Mycroft had put too much weight on the eggshells he walked on around them.

After Sherlock had been moved from the comfortably - for a Holmes - stately mansion, to the very unwelcoming grey walled room in Scotland, he set up his laptop for the surveillance feeds. He could track the gang's movement between cities, knowing they were stupid enough to believe he was not alone and trace his steps, following under the notion that he had their merchandise. Of course, the true opposing force to them would meet halfway, being stationed in the unassuming city of Portree. Even Sherlock had to hand it to them for scaring the locals into submission and respect, conveniently ignoring the weekly dubious boats docked there. Of course, they knew how to get the best of the gang in favour of claiming Sherlock's death notice, and once they had sent their enemies fleeing with tails tucked under, Sherlock would make his grand entrance, sans army doctor. The thought disturbed him enough to distract him from his work for a moment. It was more that he was a creature of habit, despite his unpredictability. Having John there had become a state of being. But, Sherlock had picked up the scent of the all-too-confident mob of exaggerated robbers, and thus they wanted revenge. The Met, had, unsurprisingly, proven useless. Which, clearly, had nothing to do with Sherlock refusing protection and insisting they simply walk into the gang's establishment and arrest them. Even Sherlock Holmes gets desperate, once in a while, and since the gang was (rather ambitiously) dealing in arms, Sherlock thought it best to wait until they were specifically armless to catch them in the act of something. The added triumph of hopefully bringing down the Portree-based gang was just the cherry on the top.

John would forgive him. John would understand that the gang knew enough to believe they never went anywhere without each other. And they were moronic enough not to anticipate Sherlock planning with that in mind.

He would be cross, but he would patiently wait for Sherlock to explain. Whilst Sherlock no doubt ices the black eye John would affectionally provide him with. Then John would kiss the black eye away…

…Right?

Sherlock clenched his jaw and grimaced at the fact that he needed to do it. Even now.

Without giving himself time to chide himself, he fished around in his bag for the flash drive. When his computer screen came to life and provided him with the option of two files, he chose the second.

Pressing play, he swallowed thickly.

"Another experiment, you say? You sure you're not just hiding the fact that you're being overly sentiment- ow!" John yelped as Sherlock tossed a small paperback book at him, managing to clip the side of his head. "Alright, alright, touchy. I know, I know, I was rude today, I deserve it, so don't give me that childish- what?"

"_John_."

"Yes, right, what's this one about, then?"

"If I ever have to leave you for longer than a day for a case, disappear to protect you, and don't tell you, you'll still love me? You'll forgive me." Sherlock had said it with such confidence, as though the thought of John being angry with him for longer than the amount of time it takes to breathe between thoughts seemed absurd. Though, Sherlock conveniently had dismissed, John was very much capable of being angry with Sherlock for longer than the time it takes to breathe twice between thoughts.

John considered Sherlock sternly, his light-hearted expression from earlier turning stony.

"As long as you don't get your stupid arse killed, I will forgive you. If you get killed, I'll just sell my soul to bring you back from the dead to kill you with my own bare hands," John said. "Why are you asking?"

Sherlock had answered, impatiently, that it was an experiment, begging off the need to repeat himself again. John had narrowed his eyes and shoved him slightly, then looked down at his clasped hands.

"I will always love you, Sherlock. Always. And I trust you, with every fibre of my being. But that doesn't give you the right to be an utter idiot and leave me alone with my thoughts. Okay? I will not be made to sit here like a withering maid because you have some misguided notion that protecting me involves me not knowing what's going on. Clear?"

Sherlock had nodded.

Knowing he had nodded, Sherlock winced as he watched John's face, reading the same knowledge John had that Sherlock had now - Sherlock made exceptions when he thought his plans were foolproof and easy enough.

"This had better not be your way of indirectly telling me you're about to faff off somewhere, because if that's so we can skip this lovely dinner I have planned and go straight to the next inevitable argument we will be having," John said, side-eyeing Sherlock. Sherlock had huffed and dismissed the notion with a flap of his hand. "Oh, I know that look, you git."

"What look?" Sherlock asked, his look now simply confused.

"That look that says you're liable to do something stupid soon."

Sherlock had looked in the mirror and frowned. "This is my face."

"Exactly."

A pillow was thrown this time and John had started giggling, which Sherlock thought to be a good sign. After the camera had been carelessly pointed in a random direction of the sitting room (while they had shoved at each other and then sloppily kissed away imaginary bruises), John had smiled at the camera and then shook his head, huffing happily.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm just saying. I'd be sorely heartbroken if I didn't have my over-large child of a boyfriend to take care of everyday, so you had better preserve us both so I can continue to properly chide you."

"A profession at which you exceed all standards, by far," Sherlock had rolled his eyes.

"Oi, you toff, you know what I mean. We're a team and you better have a damn good reason to leave me out of any negotiations we may have in the future. And even then you'll be buying the milk and hoovering your messes for a month, just as a _start_," John teased. Sherlock was quiet but he was smiling slightly behind the camera. A few minutes had passed as John had fidgeted with his watch. "You know I'm only human. I can get hurt. And I know you can get hurt, both emotionally and physically. We're better together, and quite frankly I won't ever feel wholly safe without you around- no, I know you don't understand that bit, but it's not about a gun or- it's-it's about having my own sanity tied in to your level of wellbeing, yeah? So, just, don't be a dick and leave me on my own when you know I will just throw shit at you when you return until we have angry make-up sex. Ohh, you think angry make-up sex sounds good, but you have not yet experienced full Captain Watson angry se-" but John had been cut off as Sherlock had smiled devilishly and dove for the most sensitive spot just below John's ear, before clicking off the camera and setting it behind him.

Sherlock sat stiffly, realizing how he ached to kiss that spot on John's neck again. It had only been a day since he had seen John, who had gone out with some uni mates the night before (after Sherlock had left under the pretense of a quick errand, fairly certain John would be too inebriated by the time he got back to fully appraise the situation - in retrospect now, another moronic thought to tack on to the Sherlock-fucked-up mental list), and he already felt bad, knowing that logically he had made a mistake. Again. Sherlock's newfound fragile emotional state (not actually newfound at all, simply uncovered from the wreckage of his thin glass armour, once erected before meeting the man who would mean more to him than cocaine and murder: the man who would show him why two hands slotting together was the most simply beautiful thing in all of creation) was taking its toll, distracting him from the job at hand. Scolding himself, finally, he ejected the flash drive, though not before smoothing his thumb over the edge and closing his eyes for 1..2..3..thirty seconds. One day, Sherlock would learn that his imagined form of safety for John was not worth the smaller man's wrath, but Sherlock's brain was still not John-shaped enough to calculate all emotional outcomes of a situation.

Besides, John was cross, but patient, and Sherlock knew, _knew_, John would love him until the end of time. Sherlock wasn't the type to engage in the act of cheating or senseless murder (and even if he did, John would most likely help him with the latter and hide the bodies, because, Sherlock thought, John's brain was Sherlock-shaped enough at this point - a fact that caused a thoroughly disgusting feeling to settle in the pit of his chest, one which Sherlock did not want to ever address, because he is an idiot), so he was fairly certain the worst he could ever do was leave John.

That thought should have comforted Sherlock.

It had comforted him, before.

But, on this day, all Sherlock had for comfort were the heartwarming words on the flash drive (on the file marked "Evidence B: You're An Idiot"), which were painfully hindered by the truth of the harsher words. Still, though he would never delete any of the things John had said, he pushed them to the back of his mind and clung to the _love, always_, setting back to work so he could go home and have things thrown at him.

And then everything would be alright.

_Until the end of time._


End file.
